


And In Wildness, Fall

by InkyKate



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, NaNoWriMo 2017, Slow Burn, Tourney of Harrenhal AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-01-28 09:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12603172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkyKate/pseuds/InkyKate
Summary: When Arthur Dayne returns with the Knight of the Laughing Tree's shield, Lyanna Stark is thrown into the great game in order to protect her secret and find a way to freedom. Neither intend for their lives to become so entangled.





	1. An Aboreal Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "... And the king himself urged men to challenge him, declaring that the face behind the helm was no friend of his. But the next morning, when the heralds blew their trumpets and the king took his seat, only two champions appeared. The Knight of the Laughing Tree had vanished." - Bran II, A Storm of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters are roughly the same ages as they are in the books. New tags and warnings will be added as needed. For my purposes, Arthur Dayne is of an age with Rhaegar.

The laughing Weirwood tree had seemed a clever coat of arms until it turned it’s face upon her to mock, precariously caught as it was on a bough just out of reach. Lyanna had only needed to secure it to put the whole mess of honor and knights safely behind her and now her wretched shoulder had her stuck in a tree.

It had seemed so simple an idea, a lark even. Howland Reed could not avenge his honor, but any good rider could be a good joust and Lyanna was an exceptional horsewoman. Benjen had been able to discretely piece together a full suit of armor easily enough. And pride and the roar of the crowds had delivered the squire’s knights to her at the tilt. The honor of House Reed and of the North at large had been restored. 

She hadn’t thought much of the splinter that worked it’s way beneath her armor, until her arm had stiffened up as she shed her armor and she’d seen the blood. Even then it had seemed simple to wash the wound and bandage it, a battle wound to crow about to Ben once it had healed properly. It had even remained amusing to hear the lords and knights boast about unmasking the mystery knight at the evening’s feast, knowing full well that Howland and Benjen had already returned or sold off the knight’s suit and that the mystery knight would remain a curious bit of lore for the tourney.

It had been the king’s rage this morning that had made the whole affair seem well and truly dangerous. That there were now men scouring the area for any sign of the mystery knight had driven Lyanna to do away with the most damning piece of all - the shield she had painted to mete out justice. The Godswood had seemed appropriate - and safest, since surely it would be one of the first places searched.

Though now, with the laughing tree’s face turned upon her, she could almost understand the king’s paranoia.

‘I can not think about what will happen if I’m discovered here,’ Lyanna reminded herself. Doing more with the shield was a lost cause, she could only get herself out of the tree and flee as unobtrusively as possible.

She concentrated, on the feel of the bark beneath her fingers and the wind that moved through the branches. Her shoulder ached, and she could feel blood seeping past the bandage to mingle with the sheen of sweat that cooled her skin. She focused on keeping her balance, on ignoring the aches that came with being even glanced with lances. She could escape the snare she had made for herself, if only — 

“My lady,” a voice from below dashed away her unfettered hope. “I do not want to overstep, but can I offer my assistance?”

— If only she were not seen. It took everything within her not to start or swear; there were times the only way to not be caught was to not seem guilty after all.

The man at the base of tree bore no sigil nor wore any distinguishing marks. To be certain he was a knight and a lord. He had the bearing and the confidence, and his clothes and leather armor were too fine to belong to a common man. The leather wrapping the pommel of his sword seemed odd, though not as odd as the way he kept his blue eyes averted.

The wind pulled at her skirts, and Lyanna supposed, with a wince, that it was good that he was chivalrous enough to be concerned with her modesty.

“I am well, my lord. Do not trouble yourself,” Please.

It was hard to determine, from her vantage, whether the look that ghosted across his face was amused or exasperated. Regardless, his voice was cooly polite, “I fear I would be remiss if I left you in a tree. It seems a strange amusement.”

“Certainly there are far stranger.” Go away.

“And yet I find myself wondering how you found yourself so amused.”

“It is no concern of yours,” Lyanna smarted back, though in the next instance her foot slipped just enough for her to jar her wounded shoulder. She couldn’t stop the pained hiss and the pesky knight, it seemed, had not missed this display of distress, damn him.

He had turned his gaze completely on her as she wobbled and now, looking down, she met his eyes. It could have been the shadow, but they did not seem truly blue.

“I am afraid I must insist,” his tone still even and unchanged, as if maidens in trees and maidens refusing aid from trees were the most mundane of experiences in his life and not worth having an opinion over.

Lyanna very carefully did not look at the shield. She could not check that it had held fast to its position in the assaults of the wind and her clumsiness. To do any more would be an even greater risk. The pesky knight, oblivious to how little she desired his kindness, had moved closer and the rapid flick of his eyes made clear that he was evaluating the best course. The man seemed too serious to have even climbed trees as a boy, much less as a man, and, while she supposed she should be more charitable towards his concern, even a slow and clumsy ascent would put her ever closer to discovery. 

There was nothing else for it. She needed her arms to climb down and her shoulder was sure to fail. And from this vantage… Lyanna prayed to the old gods, gave a yelp of warning and dropped from the tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Lyanna's fall comes to it's expected conclusion, but the conversation does not.
> 
> This work is unbeta'd, so all feedback is welcomed. (Be kind.)


	2. An Errant Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne could have told him more about the perils of the roads than he might have cared to know. "I thank you, sir, but I have no need of your protection."
> 
> "I Insist. A true knight must defend the gentler sex." - Brienne I, A Feast for Crows

Lyanna supposed that she should be proud. The unflappable knight looked positively shocked now, but then she had just flattened him falling from a tree.

Her head felt muddled with delayed perception. She was vaguely sure that the knight had had time to get out of the way, though less sure about that than the fact that she had certainly scraped her legs and arms on the way down, that the skirts that she had bound up to climb had gone every which way, and that her ankles, surprisingly, didn’t hurt.

She must have closed her eyes in mortification, because, when she opened them, she was struck by the fact that her knight’s blue eyes had a purple cast that didn’t come from shadow and that he was properly attractive. His hair was dark, skin bronzed, and his nose had been broken at least once. He had a strong jaw that was beginning to show signs of needing a shave, and he smelled warm and clean with a hint of something subtler that she couldn’t quite place.

Lyanna could feel the sudden flush, crawl up her neck and stain her cheeks. She had flattened the knight falling out of the tree. She was sprawled all across him. She was laying on top of him. Why was she still laying on top of him?

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Lyanna rasped and her words were less than a whisper, but the knight’s eyes locked with hers because her lips were, seven hells, intimately close to his ears.

Self awareness came back in a wave. She could see his face because she had apparently propped herself up on her forearms to get her bearings, but she was pressed against him from chest to hip with their legs tangled and her skirts caught up around her waist. She couldn’t seem to get her limbs to cooperate in her rush to be in any other position and felt herself begin to shake in something like panic.

Being discovered as a mystery knight was a completely different sort of ruin than being found on top of a strange man in the forest. This was the sort of ruin that everyone would believe and unequivocally, and her only hope was the honor of this errant knight, who could very truthfully tell everyone that she had thrown herself at him. And she still couldn’t seem to move. “I am —“

She could feel him surge into motion beneath her, perhaps sensing her panic or perhaps having recovered from the indignity of being forced to break her fall or perhaps something else altogether because her sense of time seemed to be fluid. Had she been flush with him for mere moments or hours?

If pressed later, Lyanna could remember that, in the same motion of sitting up, the knight had run a hand down her back, pushing down her skirts and catching her thighs in a smooth motion that allowed him to move her to a more dignified seated position. In the moment, it had been disorienting and she had been so overwhelmingly grateful, though she could feel his touch like a brand and knew that even this was an intimacy too far.

Close as they were, it was a relief to find his gaze returned to something cool and detached. His honor she could hope was true then, because the little she had seen of men had made clear that far fewer liberties would have moved them to lust and presumption.

“I am sorry my lord,” she murmured, pulling together her wits with all her focus. “That was very clumsy of me.”

“Was it?” There was a faint lilt to his voice, an accent that she couldn’t quite place. She couldn’t read anything in his face as he observed her. He couldn’t know — “Are you hurt in any way?”

“Not at all,” He had been a much more manageable man from the treetop. There was something about him, a relentlessness or a focus perhaps, that gave even his stillness and reserve a sense of presence.

“I ask,” And there was a harder note to his voice and his gaze. “Because there is blood on your dress, at the shoulder.”

She’d forgotten about that, and now her shoulder throbbed with perversity. “It is just a scratch.”

“A scratch that forced you to find refuge in the trees.”

She had missed a turn in their conversation, hadn’t she? “I just fell, my lord. Surely my injury is from my own clumsiness.”

“Then you cannot be sure that it is not just a scratch.”

“It pains me little. I am quite well and grateful for your help, and —“

“I thought,” his tone damning in its evenness. “That honesty was a prized virtue in the North.”

“It is!” Her outrage overcoming what remained of her good sense. “Or I presume it is, as it is, I mean, something that I have heard said. About the North.”

“My lady you have the Northern look,” She could not read his gaze but, for how he was vexing her, decided it must be spiteful.

“My look is not so uncommon, my lord,” With a huff she drew herself to her feet, and felt then aches that she’d been able to ignore. The knight followed, his gaze not leaving her, even as he steadied himself by palming the wrapped pommel of his sword. “I do not presume you are a Dornishman for your looks.”

Lyanna had not realized how grim his mouth, until he flashed a sardonic smile. “And yet I am.”

“Apologies my lord,” she murmured, because this farce was tilting to cruelty where he had only been frustrating her with kindness. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting many from Dorne.”

“As you are from the North, I can imagine that there would be very few occasions.”

It was foolish to fight on this. It did not matter if he knew her kingdom, if he did not know her name or house. It mattered more that they lingered under the shield of Knight of the Laughing Tree. “I am afraid that I have taken too much of your time and dallied too long. I should be -“

“My lady,” And really interrupting wasn’t the best of manners, though it was a strange affront when it had been she who proved his were far superior to hers. “If you had injured yourself in the fall, your clothing would surely tell that story.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know your meaning.” He couldn’t know that it was a jousting injury. Could he?

“Honor demands that if you have been… hurt that I take you to a maester, and shield you from any dishonor.” His tone was solemn and his face set with something like kindness. And even for all her lack of decorum with him so far, Lyanna knew that to laugh would be the worst yet.

“I implore you, ser, that you have more than served your oaths. My own honor demands that I ask no more of you than the kindness and solicitousness you have granted me when I fell, and I can assure you that I will come to no more harm. I thank you, ser, but I will not keep you from your duties and your rest.”

The oddness of their encounter could not have been a pleasant one for him either, surely she spoke prettily enough that these words would be end of it. “Why did you let yourself fall?”

“I did not let myself,” she balked.

“I was watching you and I know clumsiness when I see it, and I know intent when I see it. And when you jumped — “

“I did not!”

“ — when you let yourself fall, then,” He brushed aside her objections. “I wondered what it was that led you to refuse aid and risk yourself so. At first I thought it poorly handled embarrassment, but now I wonder that you were able to climb at all with your shoulder.”

“I do not — “

“If it is not a new injury, my lady, then you have bandaged it and injured it anew.” Lyanna thought that she had the measure of him before, but now, with his eyes glinting and his stance firm and all his height a bulwark against her escape, awareness burned just under her skin.

Her eyes closed in frustration or despair, and she shivered as her knight murmured, “Why did you risk so much to climb that tree?”

Lyanna swallowed, “I will see that my shoulder is tended too, but everything else is just the peculiarity of a foolish young woman.”

And, ruin chasing her, she turned skirt and ran, cravenly glad when he did not follow.

 

* * *

 

The fresh bandage around her shoulder felt conspicuous when she joined her brothers by the fire. The foolishness over the mystery knight had sent Lord Harren’s household into an uproar, and so, for the evening, all his guests save the royal family were left to their own amusements.

With how wan Lord Reed’s continence appeared, she wished she could reassure him - her ability to court trouble was unencumbered by her need to defend his honor - but then the shock of the king’s interest had subdued even Benjen who knew her far better. Only Lord Baratheon, red-faced from ale already, seemed unperturbed by the whole affair.

“They call him the Mad King,” his hands in broad gesticulation, while Ned and Brandon watched on in amusement. “Mad. Imagine sending a whole tourney on its head just to chase after some green boy with a talent for breaking twigs.”

“And here I thought you planned to unmask the knight yourself!” Brandon chortled.

Robert toasted him with his tankard, “Aye, but for the sport. Imagine being so afraid of a few bits and bobs of mismatched armor. Not even a proper fight, the joust. And the prince! So useless that he spent the day talking to squires. Never came close to even finding the shield much less the knight itself.”

Ned leaned forward, “They found the shield?”

Lyanna need not imagine how wide-eyed and tense she looked. She saw a ghost of it in Benjen and Howland’s faces.

“ — Arthur Dayne, as if the man needs the glory.” Robert downed the rest of his tankard and gave her what Lyanna supposed to be a charming grin. “I’d have found the knight properly, none of this poetic nonsense.”

“Didn’t you join the search?” Brandon flashed his teeth in a wolfish grin. Ned shot him a pleading look, but Robert seemed to notice neither of them.

Robert’s eyes were a perfect blue, his short beard slightly damp with drink. “Why I imagine His Grace is composing some ballad about it as we speak. I’m sure all the maidens will swoon to hear it - hah! As if he would know what to do with a maid.”

Lyanna couldn’t place Arthur Dayne in her memory, could come up with no image more distinct than the white armor and cloak of the kingsguard. It was the men who spoke most of him, singing his praises, and they didn’t mention the quality of his appearance or the color of his eyes. Surely though, there were more than enough Dornish knights here for this to just be a coincidence. Her ser was surely another man.

“ — I am a fortunate man that my lady,” And Lyanna started as her hand was brought to damp lips for a lingering kiss. “My lady, Lyanna, appreciates the true virtues of men.”

Her brothers were too quiet. “Of course my lord.”

Robert laughed, loud and uninhibited, before turning on Ned. “Tell me! What charms does Lady Ashara prefer?”

Not for the first time did Lyanna resent Robert’s presence in the Stark camp. He had his own tent, his own ale. He was a Lord Paramount and kept the company of none of his bannermen. And Lyanna so rarely had all three brothers with her that she did not need Lord Baratheon to eat up the entire course of conversation.

He was a man of large appetites, her future husband, for drink and food, and conversation and women. And she would be his for all her days.

“Are you alright Lady Lyanna?” Howland’s voice was pitched low, under the ruckus of Robert’s storytelling. “Do you know how Ser Arthur got the shield?”

She shook her head, thinking of the curiously wrapped pommel on his sword. He wielded Dawn and surely such a famous blade was distinctive even sheathed. “I meant for it be found when I left it in the godswood. Never fear.”

“If anyone saw you — “ Benjen’s voice was unsure, torn between worry and protectiveness.

Lyanna hooked their arms and pulled him close, reassuring “If they had, we’d know.”

It wasn’t even truly a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Lyanna confirms the identity of her mystery knight and gets her first taste of court gossip.
> 
> This work remains unbeta'd, so all feedback is welcomed. (Be kind.)


	3. A Spectator's Sonnet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could see the deep green of the grass, and smell the pollen on the wind. Warm days and cool nights and the sweet taste of wine. He remembered Brandon's laughter, and Robert's berserk valor in the melee, the way he laughed as he unhorsed men left and right. - Eddard XV, Game of Thrones

Lyanna found herself situated in the stands between Benjen and Robert in the thin blue light of the next morning, and it took a considerable amount of willpower to not fidget with the bandage on her shoulder. It itched and, worse, was consuming her as constant source of worry that the obvious disruption to the lines of her gown would reveal her.

Though again no one noticed. In fact, Robert had seemed only to notice that the gown was conservative to Southron tastes and had given voice to his disappointment with a laugh (‘We Stormlanders know how to celebrate the spring and summer!’). Never he mind that the dove grey gown was her favorite, that it was made with a wool spun so fine that it had little more weight than linen, that the charcoal embroidery it was embellished with was of her own pattern or that the blue girdle she belted it with had been a name day gift.

Ned, at least, had kissed her hand and told her she looked beautiful - “Save your sweet words for Lady Ashara, Ned!,” Robert had crowed - and Howland Reed had blushed at her when he bowed her greeting.

Around her, the crowd hummed with tension, whether for the royal mood or the anticipation of the bouts to be had. The king himself seemed unbothered this morning and had, in fact, made a spectacle of archers striking at her shield. Alone beside him, Princess Elia looked radiant, though reserved without the prince’s presence.

“ — that the Queen of Love and Beauty will be crowned in winter roses?” Benjen asked, leaning forward to speak around her to Ned on Robert’s right.

“And that Lord Manderly provided them,” Ned replied, clapping a hand to Robert’s shoulder as he moved to meet Benjen’s eyes. “Think he means to tempt a bat for Wendel?”

Brandon scoffed, eyes hard on his survey of the tourney grounds, “It was the Lord Commander who sent them with his recruiting crow.”

“What for?” Benjen’s face was aghast, and Lyanna was only too grateful to worry over her youngest brothers plans for the future instead of the current uncertainty of her own. Would roses from the Watch be a show of frivolous expense or a signal of partiality? Which would worry Benjen for the Watch’s honor?

“Upset that Qorgyle never sent you a flower crown?”

“Bet the crows would smell better if they plied roses!”

Benjen’s face had gone stormy, and Lyanna wondered if either of her brothers knew how seriously he was considering the Watch. “Father will know the truth of it.”

“Who will win the crown?” Howland Reed’s voice cut through Brandon’s chortling over the Night’s Watch arranging flowers at the Wall. Lyanna thought his expression was tempered by having seen how far her brothers could go in their teasing and she sent him a smile that had him blushing again.

“I would crown you, my Lady,” Robert’s grin was wide and charming and he grabbed her hand and pressed it to her lips, holding it there too long for propriety and letting her knuckles grow damp from his breath. “Would that I had entered the joust. Or that the melee had been given proper glory.”

Lyanna could feel Brandon’s disdain prickling up the back of her neck, and Ned must have predicted it for - “I believe we all would. Winter roses are your favorite after all and no daughter of the North should be without a tribute to her beauty.”

“Hells Ned,” Brandon was brought short between his bemusement and annoyance. “That was almost poetic. Do us a sonnet next.”

“I think Princess Elia will be crowned,” Lyanna broke in, determined to curb their conversation and not attract any undue attention that she couldn’t spare.

“Not Lady Wynafrei? She had five champions and the tourney is in her honor besides.”

“It would serve Lord Whent’s reputation well to have hosted such a spectacle and come out of it with all the glory,” Howland noted.

Princess Elia was politely holding court with an overeager lord in red and white. “Lady Wynafrei has but one left in contention. Surely the Princess has three left who would do her the honor. And it could win the champion the King’s favor.”

“Crazy old man,” Robert’s words came out in a huff, though he was just wise enough to keep his voice reasonably low. “The King cares naught for any crown unless he can wear it. And why should he care for the honors bestowed to his son’s wife? She might never be the true queen either for I have heard talk that Rhaegar is out of favor —”

Ned spoke quickly and over loud, “Do you count Ser Arthur for the Princess? I would think he could crown his sister.”

“Lady Ashara again Ned?” Brandon’s words were sharp and quick to follow. “Perhaps you should continue to practice your poetry on us so that we may mock you in her stead.”

“Ser Arthur is a member of the Kingsguard,” Benjen burst, and found himself the focus of their party when he did not go further. He flushed brilliantly red, sputtering in his embarrassment.

“Shall we name them all brother?” Lyanna kept her teasing light, linking her arm with his.

Benjen, still unfortunately red faced, recovered, “I only meant that tradition would tilt towards him crowning a member of the royal family. As a member of the kingsguard.”

“Would Ser Oswell be oath bound to crown her too? Lord Baratheon?” Howland turning his attention to where Robert was frowning into his cups.

“I do not pretend to understand the nature of the kingsguard,” Robert’s words were dry, without either good cheer or treason, and Lyanna supposed that she should be more carrying of his temperament and moods. That she was only relieved likely spoke ill of her.

“I do hope that Princess Elia brought a gown in white or blue. I have only seen her in Martell and Targaryen colors and they would not suit winter roses.” No one would be served if they lingered on which parts of the kingsguard vows Lord Robert could not fathom, never mind his gall to speculate so loudly about the royal family.

As the first jousters of the day took to the field, and the tension burst over into rising cheers, Brandon reached over to tug at her hair and murmured, “At least I tried to win you your roses Lya.”

Lyanna smiled for him but could not say what she was meant to feel. They had winter roses enough back at Winterfell, and that her brother would fight for her was something she likely took for granted. Was she supposed to judge him better than other men for this, or simply better than Robert? What could possibly be the point when her father’s word and her honor as a Stark bound her so? How would the love of her family keep her happy when the length of the seven kingdoms was between them and Robert her refuge?

 

* * *

 

Ser Arthur took the field on a black sand steed, in the white armor of the kingsguard. He had switched the pure white cloak of his order for one bordered in the purple of House Dayne and he put his helm on with the entire length of the field between them.

Lyanna’s only impression through each of his matches was that his coloring was dark and that a chance remained that he was her knight, but certainty eluded her.

It was all foolishness. She had played at knights and now there were potential consequences. Shouldn’t she believe herself safe? If Ser Arthur had been the one to find her, he did not know her or her name or her family to bring her before the king to face them And, if he did, then he had delayed telling the king for no reason she could see at all.

The jousts quickly fell into a rhythm. With each snap of the lance, she let her focus drift away from field in the hopes of learning more of Ser Arthur’s character from the speculation of the crowd. That he was a second son of House Dayne she knew, and that he was titled Sword of the Morning for his superior skill with the blade. She knew he had two younger sisters, though not that his elder brother had only recently become head of the family. He was said to be friends with Prince Rhaegar and to have trained with him before being knighted. Men were either full of praise or given to doubt that anyone could live up to his reputation, and all mentioned a Smiling Knight though none told the story.

And all talk confirmed that Ser Arthur Dayne had ridden out into the woods and found the proof that the Knight of the Laughing Tree had left behind.

The talk of him matched her knight. For all she had been ill mannered and determined to flee, he had been careful of her modesty and honor. However inconvenient he was to her purpose, and however dangerous he could be to her and her family should they meet again, she half wished that she had met him and could tell tale of it. Knights and their Southron ways and strange sensibilities were blessedly rare in the North, but she had always loved the stories.

It occurred to her, though she couldn’t say why, that perhaps Ser Arthur would crown a secret lady love like Aemon the Dragonknight, and add another verse to the songs that they would sing about him.

Even with her wavering foreboding every time her act as a mystery knight was mentioned, and her growing giddiness in every moment that she was not yet dragged before the king, the afternoon passed quickly. The day was a haze of horseflesh and shattered lances, sure victories and surprise defeats. The air swelled with the smell of sweat and piss and spilled drink, with the discordant odors of cooked meats and sweet breads being hocked to the crowds, and with the musty-breathed talk of hundreds of spectators.

The din only grew when Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur faced one another in the lists. They cheered no less loudly when Ser Arthur broke his lance on the prince’s shield in the second tilt, than when Prince Rhaegar had broken his on the very star of Ser Arthur’s sigil.

“Who do you think will take the match?” Lyanna whispered to Benjen, but he could only shrug, his eyes never wavering from the pair as they readied themselves for the last pass.

Even Robert, who had scoffed at the sport for all five days of the tourney, seemed held fast in his observation of the match. Lyanna supposed that as Prince Rhaegar was kin, and as he had been to court as a child, the spectacle held less overly heroic awe for him, but she could not bring herself to ask and disrupt the disregard that hung between them as Robert lost himself in the violence and sport.

‘He is Ned’s dearest friend,’ Lyanna reminded herself. ‘And I know him to be handsome and well positioned, and he will make a lady of a house paramount as my mother was.’

Lyanna could barely remember her mother and, when she was spoken of, it was of her dutifulness as a mother and her care for the North. No one ever said she was happy.

The flag dropped and both men surged forward, their horses swift and sure and rippling with strength under their ornamentation. If there were weaknesses in their forms, Lyanna couldn’t find it and she found herself holding her breath with the rest of the milieu.

Both lances hit shields, but only the prince’s broke and the cheers covered the announcement that he would continue to the championship.

“The tourney’s been Rhaegar’s since it began,” Brandon observed, collapsing back into his seat even as others rose to cheer harder. He took a long swig of ale before running a hand across his mouth, uncouth, and Lyanna was reminded that his own ambitions had been cut short by Prince Rhaegar’s lance.

“I believe you are right, Lady Lyanna,” Howland was bright with his cups. “Princess Elia will surely be crowned at the end of the day.”

“Rhaegar is not the champion yet,” Robert joined Brandon in his insolence, before swinging suddenly to laughter as was his wont. “Barristan the Bold! That grandfather of a kingsguard will take the day, I would make you a wager of it.”

That Lord Reed was a guest of House Stark and had come to each match in borrowed clothes, unprepared for the occasion as he was, seemed beyond Robert and the wager fell to Ned, who at least seemed comfortable with putting some silver on their prince.

“I think Ser Barristan will crown the princess,” Benjen was saying, as Lyanna’s attention caught on Ser Arthur, who had wheeled around to meet Rhaegar at the rail, helm off and laughing. She could not make out their words, but for the first time that day she could make out the line of his jaw and the shape of his brow, the slightly crooked length of his nose. Even from this distance, where Prince Rhaegar was beautiful she could see that Ser Arthur was handsome.

And it was now undoubtedly Ser Arthur that she had tackled from a tree the day before.

No one was paying her any mind as she felt herself go hot and cold, flush and pale, with the embarrassment and the fear of it. She could not help but to lean forward, to be sure and better judge Ser Arthur’s features that she had seen so closely. And in her focus to be sure - to be absolutely certain, because surely she was neither in such embarrassment or danger - it did not occur to her that, if she was better able to see him, he was better able to see her.

He had moved his horse into a trot, face turned to the crowd and arm raised in a show of chivalrous gratitude for their enthusiasm, as he made a last turn about the field - and then his eyes locked with hers as he approached their easement.

Under his gaze, Lyanna ran cold then hot, and even flushed and dressed a lady she had no doubt that he knew her. And worse, now he would surely know her family, pressed as she was in a row of similarly faced brothers in grey and white and marked with direwolves.

‘I am lost,’ Lyanna realized. ‘What hope do I have that his honor will not betray me?’

He made no motion to raise an alarm and, though his gaze was steady, he did not break pace to gawk at her. And, even once he had left the field, Lyanna felt knotted by this temporary reprieve, by the certainty that she would meet with Ser Arthur yet again — and was so consumed by it that she barely noticed that the winter roses Prince Rhaegar extended to his wife set lovely on her dark hair and horribly against her gown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Lyanna meets with Ser Arthur, sees a maester for her shoulder and learns what Arthur's honor demands.
> 
> This work remains unbeta'd, so all feedback is welcomed. (Be kind.)


End file.
